My sexuality is: label-my-sexual-orientation-and-I-will-mangle-that-label. It is safe to just say sexually fluid though that is description is so vague and overused that it is basically meaningless. That’s why I add suffixes to my sexual-fluid label.

Sexual fluid, like gender fluid, means however I feel in one moment doesn’t define my entire self. How aroused I am by submission, bdsm, masochism, trans* individuals, cis individuals, phallus genitals, vaginal genitals, anal sex, vaginal sex, age play, etc is not a static experience. Even an evaluation of my sexual history will only give someone a glimpse of my sexual preferences because it is not filled with experiences that match the ideal. The ideal would be to have a girlfriend and have gay sex. Maybe even a lesbian triad. However, those aren’t my experiences — my experiences are mostly straight.

I have a boyfriend that I am in love with. And some of my best sex has been with him. This, plus similar experiences, proves that I am not a lesbian. Despite this, I feel like part of me is missing without that lesbian relationship that is in my ideal. This incompleteness in my relationship is what opens me up to polyamoury.

Kink is technically the sexual attraction to anything other then vaginal sex. But that definition reeks of homophobia and misogyny. When I say kink I am talking about sexual attraction to anything to other then sex with genitals. For me that’s bondage and restraint, sadism and masochism, dominance and submission, age play and pet play, and all the other tropes. For a long time I defined my sexual orientation purely in terms of kink. The gender and sex of my partner wasn’t important as much as their role as a Top. Since I started switching and being more grey in my power role that’s no longer true. But kink is still a large part of the way I relate to the sexual world.

Lesboqueer is a cute nickname I just made up. I’m sure other people have thought of it as well but it just came to me. Alternatives to lesboqueer would be: pansexual, homoflexible, or lesbian (alternatively: i’m a lesbian just a really bad lesbian). I have used all these descriptors as well.

Pansexual is way more preferable to bisexual. Bisexual would be dumbing down my sexuality too much. However, even pansexual isn’t a complete truth. I am sexually attracted to genders that are not in the gender binary however I am not equally attracted to all genders, I am unsure if I am attracted to all genders, and

My sexuality is: Any excuse to use the genderqueer seahorse icon.

gender does play a large part in my sexual orientation. I am far too interested in women for me to earnestly call myself pansexual.

The issue I have with homoflexible or lesbian is that it defines my gender as female. This is something I’m increasingly distancing from. Especially in my own cognition. In my mind I don’t want to box my own gender. Let it be free at least there.

Lesboqueer is basically a way for me to call myself a lesbian and genderqueer at the same time. But having a prefix of sexual fluid means I’m not really a lesbian all the time. And that’s how I solved the logic problem of my sexual orientation. Check, mate!

I only lasted eight months in the kink scene before I called it quits, two years ago. I mean, I have gone out a couple of times since, and kept in contact with my close friends, and like I occasionally lurk fetlife.com (the kink social network. Yeah we have our own. ) but that’s far from active. And I didn’t replace the scene with something new, I am back to my roots, to my true self… which is introversion. For me, it wasn’t the bdsm that was the experiment, it was being social four times a week.

I joined the scene because I was in a secret M/s polyamorous relationship for three years and couldn’t handle the loneliness that comes with such a huge secret. Though my vanilla (non-kink, like Muggles) friends were rebels, I still felt too weird to be relatable. But when I joined the scene I surpassed my need to be accepted for bdsm and poly. I found acceptance in my sex-positive feminism, trans* gender fluidity, and homosexuality too.

I had complete acceptance and support and love and attention. It gave me a special elation that I don’t expect to find again. I was infatuated, more so with the entire kink scene than anyone in particular. I would proudly say that I was dating the kink scene, that I was the kink scene’s lover, that everyone was beautiful and nothing can go wrong — until reality hit.

I left the scene because . . .

(A) The conversations bored me. If you aren’t in the scene, then maybe conversations about orgies, being cut open, being a sex slave, and starting porn work might seem endlessly exciting. Well, sorry, but these conversations actually aren’t that great. At some point I think, what about the rest of the world. There are only so many conversations on what it means to be a sub one person can take. These conversations made me closed off from meeting new people and more interested in learning the real meaty stuff from the friends I already made.

(B) I realized I willingly invited a rapist into my apartment to have sex with me without even knowing his name. Two years ago, when I quit, there was a major outing happening on Fetlife over community rapists. I entirely support this movement however Fetlife’s admins and moderators do not. There is still a conflict going on between Fetlife and the NYC kink scene over the outings. In one of the outings this particular kinkster was mentioned multiple times and I became rightfully horrified. Even if he never came over, I still would of been disturbed. I learned in these outing that there are many abusers that float around the scene. Realizing this sorta ruined my free-love idealism.

(C) Heartbreak. I have had the same conflicts come up multiple times in my different relations leading to some serious hurt feelings. Though I call it heartbreak, I am not just talking about my ex-romantic relationships. I am talking about other partners and friends as well. There are some really unhealthy habits in the nyc kink culture. People try to have as many partners as possible, often retiring their old partners when they find something new and shiny. Besides being a gross thing to do to someone, this is dangerous behaviors. Hard limits are frequently forgotten and real connections are forced, leading to some really awful scenes. The binge-eating on scene partners comes from a complete misunderstanding over what polyamoury really means (loving multiple people). The scene degrades this word to excuse their hook up culture with a pretentious-intellectual name. And fuck it hurts.

im a quitter

(D) I’m a quitter. I didn’t like the kink scene so I quit it. For a while this made perfect sense but recently I’m realizing how awful that actually was. The community doesn’t just exist. It is a group-made institution that is frequently shifting and growing with the contributions of many different leaders. There is nothing about my personality that screams ‘leader’ however I didn’t even try to fix the holes that I saw in the scene. I was hurt by them and I left. This is where I was wrong. I can’t expect a community to change to my ideals if I don’t put them on the table. At this point I’m so removed from the kink scene that even writing this article is intrusive. I think sometimes of going back and being louder about my qualms. But if I stay a quitter forever then at least I hope I inspire someone else to either help the nyc kink community or whatever community that they belong to.

Like this:

I can tell that he is trying to hide something but it isn’t going to work. He can’t. The truth comes out in his addiction and I’m a part of them.

For instance; when he orgasms his complexion gradients into a panicked eggshell merged with rageful scarlet. I watch the anxious composure of my lover, companion, guardian melt away and turn into swelling vice.

And when he is trying to hold back he claws into my back. I feel the stingy warm sensation, my masochist is fucked just right, but my intellect doesn’t skip this beat.

And my ear is placed right in between his lip and throat where I observe his exclamations as they slither up his diaphragm and easily escape out of his expanded mouth into my ear. I hear a crescendo of the typical grunts and moans but also that drown out booming growl.

Sublimity. Sublime. Sub-lime. The word is thick like molasses. When we kiss I’m doing something. My tongue rolls around it, my spit absorbs it, and my mouth tries to transfer to him the intrigue, beauty, and hope that swirls and swells, like the famous tornado filled with wreckage, fairy tales, and memories, inside of me.

I wonder if he really thought that I am not aware of this; my foolishness only stretches so far. Not only am I aware but I’m obsessed. Ritually I whisper, who is he, when his cock fills my mouth, my lip glosses in cum, and my senses are enlightened with a moment of honesty.

Our first date was at a STI clinic– it was pretty loud declaration on what our interest and hobbies were yet I still was surprised when he asked me back to his neighborhood after. I’m so naive; where did I think this was going to go, really.

Skip to me scared, on my back, stretched wide, moaning and grinding. But actively keeping my eyes to the side; I didn’t want to make any eye-contact. I was intimidated by what I could be walking into, who is this person, why am I doing this, but at the same time, the fingers buried into my mound were pounding me, turning me on, almost making me forget my anxiety.

His hand still inside me, he readjusts himself, face angled to mine, mouth brushed my cheek down to my lips, I made a move and sucked on his lower lip— why did I do that?

One hand lied on my throat —is this a threat? and the other left my cunt and brushed up my back, scratched my neck. I squirmed into him. He smelt like lavender leaves but also like crisp post-rain air. They make expensive lotions out of his scent. I wanted to sneak another sniff because it relaxed me but I decided against it. Why do I even want to remember what he smells like? What is his purpose is to me, and I to him, will I have one later if I don’t now?

My tongue started to enter into his mouth and I almost got carried away until I started getting some perspective on where I have to be.

I released to mumble “What time is it? It must be time?” It was. Class started in 45, it was time for me to get going. I escaped onto a J train and allowed my brain to squeeze out the anxieties and questions I gathered this morning. I was unsure why I got so scared anyway. He is a good guy, or a good enough guy, I knew his girlfriend and my boyfriend knew him. They both wouldn’t encourage this if he didn’t understand consent. I enjoyed that, and he didn’t push it too far, I was always in control, why do I get so scared, why do I think horrible things are going to happen to me?

I didn’t ask Josh Rollins to help me. I didn’t ask him to own me. I didn’t really ask him anything. It was the following week and we were sitting on his balcony, blowing hookah into each others faces, and he told me that he feels like taking me in. And like a stray, bribed by curiosity, I stayed with him. I have previously trained to be a slave but I never had a training that was about self-improvement before anything else. I liked the idea of being a student and have been wanting to figure out a way to make a relationship out of Teacher/student scenes, and this was an interesting angle to it.

Though he took me in shortly after our first date, he did not touch me. It was actually a month before we touched each other again. There hasn’t even been a peck in the mean time. We have discussed sex but we don’t do it. He told me it was up to me, that he’s horny and ready to go but it was up to me to take the initiative.

It took me a month to figure out how to do that and get the courage to ask him to invite me over for the night. We met outside of Hunter College and popped onto the 6 train and talked about who the fuck knows what but eventually made it to his place.

I entered and undressed— that was the rule he has created for me, to undress as soon as I get into his apartment. Looking back it was impressive that Josh Rollins was able to handle me nakedly walking around his apartment once or twice a week for a month and was able to restrain himself from any sort of initiation.

We went into his room to watch a movie which was soon interrupted by an abrasive phone call from my mother that was overtly suspicious and inquisitive. It ended with her being pretty livid at me which made me visibly upset. I went into his room and plopped on the other side of his bed and tried to brush it off, he held me to comfort me and that’s when I decided to fuck all and suck lip. From lip to neck. From neck to sternum, chest, down his stomach, and then I willingly took his dick into my mouth, the precise act that I was scared he would force onto me was what I was horny over.

Fuck we are both overly kinesthetic— probably because we are so quiet so screaming out what we want is unlikely. But touching each other was quite simple. He pinched my nipples and licked my clit. I sucked his chest and grabbed his shaft.

I felt like I gained a superpower when I learned how to initiate though this is probably just basic sexual competence, nevertheless, Josh Rollins first experiment was a success.

In the post-WWII gay scene there were two roles: top and bottom. These terms are coined from sexual positioning: top is defined by the penetrator (/giving) and bottom is defined by the penatratee (/receiving). As the gay leather scene became part of pop culture and an influence on all-kinksters the terms top and bottom have been redefined to focus on specific activies such as sadomasochism, power-roles, bondage and restraints, and other fetishies.

I identify as a bottom with kinks that focus on submission and masochism.

I started exploring these interests five years ago in the digital scene and one of the first things I noticed was that there are a lot of ciswomen who are submissive. These observations were later renewed a year ago when I joined New York’s local/public scene. From a feminist perspective it is a bit distressing– has one of the things I hate the most (patriarchal oppression) infected one of the things I love the most (sex)?

The answer: very likely. Gender roles have taught me how I should dress, how I should speak, and also how I should behave in relationships. I know this because when someone in this society is raised as a female they are also raised to be calm, passive, obedient, maternal, and submissive. It seems pretty natural for that to internalize and for me to get off to being submissive.

The natural confusion that I keep on finding myself muddled in is how I can call myself a strong feminist when I’m a willing bottom. I’m still deconstructing these two identities however, so far, I gather that I can be a strong feminist and bottom because I do such in a consensual manner and because I feel empowered when I bottom.

First, I know that I choose to bottom. Consenting to bottoming isn’t anti-feminist because it is flexing the ability that the feminist prior to me fought for me to have. I have a platform to express and actualize sexual interests and this is evidence of feminism’s progress.

Second, I enjoy bottoming for many reasons but what is relative to this discussion is that bottoming and especially masochism makes me feel empowered. My masochistic experiences have led me to being belittled, degraded, raped, beaten, etc– in general by the end of the scene my power is taken away from me. And yet having these experiences make me feel powerful. When my weak points are hit(both literally and not) and I survive I know what my potential is. I know that there is a lot of internalized strength inside of me and I know that I can handle what life dishes out to me.

Right now there are brown dashes on the inside of my shoulder. A pink and violet femme bruise pulsating out of my white tit. The opposing tit being decorated with pale pink fading scars. Brown and pink angular lines down my hipbones giving perfect direction to the thin landing strip my cunt is currently wearing. On the edges of both my thighs are tan bruises and then a matching one on the left cheek of my ass and yet I’m still tempted to take that ass and bend it over someone’s lap —I say it so vaguely but you know I have an idea on who– while my face bends down my mouth gapes open and that ass gets rouge, salmon, lavender, grape, magenta, onyx, tan, lime, maroon, pink, neon striped, hand-printed, scarlet blood drying into crusty brown beatings. And with them come squeaks, whimpers, moans, screams, maybe, but then growls.

Did any fingerprints make indents in my ass? Can my ass be the next set of CSI? Is my ass colorful enough to be included in your impressionist art gallery?

Does my ass challenge you? Scare you?

Do my jutting collarbones seem like a juxtaposition? Did you expect different result when you saw how close my spine is to my skin? Did you not think something would be inside these b-cup tits and timid lips?

I can take it. You don’t know what I can take. The anger is recognizable and lashing out. I have a white and pink fleshy map to prove that I’m not “chill”. That I hear what you said about me, right outside of my door, that I feel it when you take your crunchy echo-y stomps into every corner of my space, that I know that every time you told me ‘don’t worry, I love you’ you were giving me (toxic for some, but not me) lies– I’m quiet not imaginary.

You may never hear my thoughts but you will hear my screams and growls.